


heartbreaker

by Areiton



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, M/M, MIT Era, POV Second Person, Pet Names, Pining, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: You always thought that loving Tony was the hardest, best thing you’d ever do.You stopped lying to yourself about that, about loving him, years ago. There’s no point in lying about something that’s written into your bones, a part of you as much as your military service is, as much as flying is.
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Tony Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 129





	heartbreaker

You call him heartbreaker. 

He laughs and shakes his head, calls you  _ Rhodey, platypus, honeybear,  _ his. 

You don’t argue because this is true enough--you’ve belonged to Tony Stark since the moment you laid eyes on him. 

~*~ 

You call him heartbreaker and he thinks you’re teasing. He leaves a swath of lovers behind him, pretty girls and prettier boys, all with shiny hungry eyes. Some of the people he fucks are using him, eat up his time and money and the lavish presents and when he moves on, because he always moves on, they don’t get hurt. 

But you see the ones who do, the ones who watch as he walks away, already distracted by a brilliant world-changing idea, already chattering in your ear, already smiling for the next pretty thing, and you see the heartbreak in their eyes, the longing and want, the ache for  _ more _ of him, because how can a tiny taste of Tony ever be enough. 

~*~ 

You call him heartbreaker, but you call him other things, too. 

Call him idiot, when he’s three days deep in a science binge, vibrating with lack of sleep and too much coffee. 

Call him rich boy when he throws money at you to make your scowl go away, when he, thoughtlessly kind, takes care of the hospital bills after your sister is in a car accident. 

Call him pain in the ass, when he drags you out to watch a meteor shower, keeps you up all night and passes out without setting the alarm clock. 

You call him brother, and Tones, and sweetheart when he’s fragile and shattering under his father’s expectations and disdain. You call him genius and peacock every day, just to see him grin at you, wild and brilliant the way he never is with anyone else, all his masks stripped away. 

You call him Stark when you fight with him, when he bullies you about a SI job, about your military career. 

You call him asshole when you storm out and when he chases you, screaming and scared. 

You call him baby, when you deploy, and thumb away his tears, and when he smiles at you, a tiny tremulous thing, you call him heartbreaker. 

~*~ 

You always thought that loving Tony was the hardest, best thing you’d ever do. 

You stopped lying to yourself about that, about loving him, years ago. There’s no point in lying about something that’s written into your bones, a part of you as much as your military service is, as much as flying is. 

You call him heartbreaker, still, but not as often as when you were in college, and sometimes, when you do, you see sadness flicker in his eyes. 

~*~ 

They die, and he calls you. 

And because he is yours, because you love him and he is your brother and your best friend and everything good in your world--you go. 

You hold him when he cries, hold him when he drinks himself stupid, hold him as he throws up and when he’s exhausted, when he’s limp with grief and sprawled across you, you kiss his forehead, his sweaty hair and you begin piecing him back together. 

~*~ 

You love him, and you hate him, sometimes. For loving someone like Ty and a snake like Sunset, you want to hate him. 

You want to hate Pepper too. 

He looks at you, eyes brilliant and wild, and his grin honest and open, and it feels like yesterday when you sat in a dirty apartment at MIT, and he was yours, and you were his. 

You stand next to him and feel a million miles away. 

~*~ 

You love him, and you never never tell him. 

You call him heartbreaker because this is what you have to remember. 

You love him. And you think--you think, if you gave the word, Tony would spill into your bed, and light up your world. Sometimes, you fuck up into your hand and think about it, about  _ him _ , bright and wild, grinning and riding you, all sleek muscles and hips under your hands, and his body tight around your cock, and you  _ know _ it would be good. 

You call him heartbreaker, and you remember where he earned that name, the shattered pretty things he left in his wake at MIT. 

Loving Tony is hard, and you swore, a long time ago, that you wouldn’t let it destroy you. 

~*~ 

The world blows up in a roadside bomb and Tony is gone in the aftermath and you are left standing there, alone. 

Your heart breaks. 

~*~ 

You search for him. 

Your told that it’s a waste, that you’re destroying your career chasing a man who is dead. Stane shakes his head in pity. Your CO orders you to stand down. Your mama cries and tells you to come home. Your men watch you with worry and concern blatant in their eyes. 

Pepper stares at you, eyes rimmed red and fury in every line of her slim body and orders you to bring him home. 

“I will,” you promise. 

~*~ 

You search for him. 

The desert is endless and merciless and empty and every day that ticks by with no word, the world goes a little bit dimmer and your heart breaks a little bit more, and you want, more than you’ve ever wanted anything, to have him back, to drag him into your arms and kiss him and tell him the truth. 

You want him to hear you say it, want to tell him you love him, and damn the consequences. 

“Please, heartbreaker,” you whisper into the dark and go back out to look for him. 

~*~ 

A pocket in the mountains blows skyhigh and you are chasing after it in minutes, praying for a miracle three months after everyone has decided he’s dead. 

And because he’s Tony fucking Stark--genius, peacock, pain in the ass, idiot, brother,  _ Tones-- _ he’s there, throwing up his hand and falling into the sand, and you catch him, pull him close, your beating heart held in your arms and he clings, and whimpers, his voice cracked and breaking, and shaping your name, and you pet his hair and hold him and whisper, “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.” 

~*~ 

Tony has a machine in his chest, demons in his eyes, and ghosts in his nightmares. He clings to you, and you let him. Push the doctors away, gentle but firm and clean him up with steady hands, and soft murmured words, and his trembling eases. 

You drape him in your shirt and button it over the arc reactor he isn’t talking about, and let him pull you close with kitten weak tugs, curl in bed around him, and he shivers. 

“Thanks for finding me,” he mumbles, just before he falls asleep, pressed against your chest, and your heart  _ hurts.  _

Damn him, he hurts you. 

“I’ll always find you, heartbreaker,” you murmur. 

~*~ 

You tell him. 

You swore you’d tell him, and if the price of getting Tony back safe and alive is losing your best friend, you’ll gladly pay it. 

You tell him on the plane home, when he is trapped and you have a moment alone, say it simple and plain, “I love you.” 

“Love you too, honeybear,” he mumbles, and you catch his hand. 

Call him, “Tony,” and it snags his attention, draws his gaze to you, wide and startled. You call him many things, but you never call him that. 

“I love you, Tony,” you say. 

He smiles, and it’s brilliant and wild, and a little shy. “I love you too, James.” 

~*~ 

You fuck him after the press conference, when you’re pretty sure you should be furious and all you can be is relieved, and he’s hot and desperate under your hands, and his mouth is a fucking revelation, hungry and demanding on yours, biting down your throat, whining pleas and murmured nonsense into your chest. 

You fuck him until he’s sobbing with it, and you’re shaking through your orgasm, hot and deep in him, and he rolls his head to smile at you, kiss you sweet. 

“We shoulda done that years ago,” he mumbles, and you laugh and kiss him again. 

~*~ 

You call him heartbreaker. 

And you keep waiting for him to break yours. 

You’ve always known that’s how it’d go, if you let yourself love him, if you let him love you. 

You call him heartbreaker and you wait and you snatch every kiss and mind-meltingly perfect day you have in the meantime. 

~*~ 

“Hey, Rhodey?” he says, and you look at him, sated and sticky and sore in the very best way. 

“Heartbreaker?” you drawl and his expression twitches. 

“I won’t, you know.” 

You go still and he sits up, naked and unashamed as he straddles you. “I won’t ever break your heart, Rhodey. You have to know that.” 

You stare at him, and he smiles, a little sadly and kisses you gently. “I’ll show you,” he promises.

~*~ 

And he does. 

You wait and you wait and you eventually quit waiting because you’re too damn busy being happy, too damn busy  _ living _ and if he breaks your heart--you think it’ll be worth it. 

~*~ 

He almost dies, and he flies a nuke into space, and he almost dies and every time--he comes back to you, apologetic and sweet, and begging you to forgive him, and piecing your fractured heart back together. 

And you get it,  _ really _ get it, about the time you watch him put his bots back together, and leans into your arms, and his gaze is wild and brilliant and honest the way he always is with you. 

You don’t really think, after that. 

~*~ 

“Hey, heartbreaker,” you say and Tony frowns, a little as he looks up and then he goes still, utterly. Your heart pounds too hard behind your chest. “Wanna get married?” you ask, softly, holding out the red and gold band. 

His smile is wild and brilliant and beautiful. 

~*~ 

You call him a lot of things. You call him heartbreaker, still, if only to see the petulant scowl on his face when you do. 

Your favorite thing to call him by far is  _ husband.  _


End file.
